Sativa Strain

by Alexi Venice

  “No. We’ve been too busy at work. She picked up a pack of her own. Pall Malls, I think.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve visited Mack’s?”

  “A couple of weeks. Maybe longer.” They stepped off the elevator on the first floor. In an attempt to avoid further questions, Sam quickly led them through the sunny atrium toward the bank of glass doors.

  “Buy anything else for your boss?”

  “All sorts of things. Can you be more specific?”

  “I want you to make a list of everything you’ve bought for Mrs. Montiago in the last six months.” Tommy removed his bifold and gave her his business card. “Send the list to me at my email on this card, okay?”

  She nodded tentatively.

  “This is police business, Sam. Don’t tell anyone I asked you to do this—especially not Mrs. Montiago. Got it?”

  “Okay,” she said tremulously.

  Amanda shook her head imperceptibly. Really, Tommy, scaring the shit out of this girl for sport.

  Chapter 14

  Palo Alto

  Frank handed Montiago’s computer to Tommy then popped the trunk. Tommy carefully set it in the well and latched the lid.

  Once they were all settled in the car, Frank asked, “To Kara Montiago’s apartment?”

  “Yeah. Let me plug in the address in Google Maps,” Tommy said, using his iPhone. The electronic voice guiding them, Frank drove out of the surreal Tyche Campus.

  “Thanks for your help back there, Frank,” Amanda said. “I can definitely tell this isn’t your first rodeo. It’s nice to have a third set of eyes and ears.”

  “I agree,” Tommy said. “I think Montiago forgot you were even in the room. She practically had a coronary when you asked her about her lipstick.”

  “I noticed that, too,” Frank said, stifling a chuckle.

  “She didn’t seem concerned about us visiting her apartment,” Amanda said, “which tells me we won’t find anything incriminating there.”

  “We have to cover all our bases, though,” Tommy said.

  “I’m actually a little hungry,” Amanda said. “Can we get a snack on the way?”

  “Absolutely. What do you want?” Tommy asked.

  “Coffee for my headache and something to go with it.”

  “I know a place,” Frank said. He made a few turns, and soon they were in line at a Starbuck’s drive-through.

  The men ordered coffees and egg sandwiches. “What do you want, Amanda?” Frank asked.

  “I’ll take a reserve coffee, with cream and sugar, and a protein box, please.”

  Frank repeated her order to the window attendant. Amanda tapped him on the shoulder with her credit card, again thinking how convenient it would be when he got his own under her name.

  “I hope you’re going to submit that for reimbursement,” Tommy said.

  “I plan to,” she said. “The DA’s Office is buying you lunch today.”

  They got their food, and Frank pulled into an empty spot in the parking lot to eat. Amanda picked at her hardboiled egg, fruit and muesli bread.

  “I should call the forensics team to meet us at the apartment,” Tommy said while he chewed. “We might want to dust for fingerprints and pick up some DNA samples.”

  “Good idea,” Frank said around a bite.

  They took their time, knowing it would be 20-30 minutes for the forensics team to drive down from the city. When they finished, Tommy rounded up their garbage and got out and tossed it in a bin.

  When he got back in, Amanda said, “Thanks, Tommy. I hate it when my car gets cluttered with crap.”

  “I figured. Ready to roll?” he asked.

  They found Montiago’s posh apartment complex and met up with Officers Kleini and Link, the DNA and fingerprint specialists.

  “Hey guys,” Tommy said.

  “Got your hazmat suit this time?” Kleini asked Tommy.

  “Don’t remind me. Do you have your first-aid kit with Narcan?” Tommy asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.

  “Happened a few months ago on Tommy’s homicide investigation of the Federal Reserve Bank employee,” Amanda said. “He was poisoned.”

  “Really?”

  “While searching an apartment, I opened a jewelry box and BAM! the world went dark,” Tommy said.

  “Yeah. We heard a crash, and when he didn’t respond, we knew something was wrong,” Kleini said. “If we hadn’t been carrying Narcan, the dumbfuck probably would’ve died.”

  “What was in the jewelry box?” Frank asked.

  “Carfentanil,” Tommy said.

  “Are we sure we want to go in there?” Frank nodded toward Montiago’s expensive apartment building.

  “I doubt Kara Montiago has carfentanil squirreled away,” Amanda said. “Just take precautionary measures when poking around.”

  “Trust me. I will,” Frank said.

  Montiago had given Tommy the entry code to the building, so they went in and took the stairway to the third floor.

  Tommy used the key Montiago had handed him to let them in. “Everyone have gloves?”

  “I don’t, but I don’t plan on touching anything,” Amanda said.

  Once they were inside, they paused in the hallway outside the kitchen. The four men donned their gloves.

  Officer Link looked at the kitchen counter. “Excellent. Used glasses.” He walked in and opened his black box, resembling a tackle box, and started dusting the large glasses for fingerprints.

  Kleini went to the bathroom to collect hair and other DNA samples. Tommy and Amanda went into Montiago’s bedroom, and Frank wandered into the living room.

  “Someone cleaned the place,” Amanda observed. She noted the modern furnishings and cold, gray walls. “Not exactly a love palace with red satin sheets and a mirror over the bed.” She opened the closet doors and was met with a rack of designer suits—all very conservative and presentable for a Presidential campaign.

  Tommy opened dresser drawers and found the usual female apparel, spiced up with some slinky bras and thongs, but nothing that wouldn’t be appropriate for date night in any wife’s drawer.

  He wasn’t surprised when he found a small bag of marijuana at the back of the panty drawer. He held it up for Amanda.

  “So? Montiago and several million other Americans smoke weed,” she said.

  He dropped it into an evidence bag and marked it with a black marker then he moved over to the end table and rifled through it. A one-hitter pipe. A lighter. Condoms. Astroglide gel. Some satin ties. A whip. A feather. Aside from the fact that the bedroom was “adults only,” there wasn’t anything that would incriminate Montiago for murder. “You were right, Amanda. Nothing here.”

  “First, Montiago is too smart if she’s the killer. Second, if someone is framing her, why plant something here when you could plant it at the murder scene?”

  “I know,” Tommy said.

  After snooping around and rifling through drawers and closets, the group met in the living room.

  “I have what I need from the bathroom,” Kleini said.

  “I dusted several glasses on the counter,” Link said.

  “I’m intrigued by this business portrait on the wall,” Frank said, holding it up for them to see. “At first blush, it looks like a boring executive team photo. However, if you look more closely, it’s all men except for Kara. I wonder if these are the guys who are in her stable.”

  “Her stable of studs?” Tommy peered closely at the framed photo and saw that Jared Carlisle was in it, along with eleven other men—all much younger than Montiago. “Let’s take it. We can crosscheck the photos with hits we get on social media from the names she gave us. The only things I found were marijuana and some sex toys.”

  “I also grabbed this Dunhill cigarette butt with Montiago’s shade of lipstick on it,” Frank said.

  “Good call,” Tommy said.

  “According to Montiago, this butt has to be at least a couple of weeks old beca
use she ran out of Dunhills,” Frank said. “I want to see if forensic pathology can compare it to the lipstick—and hopefully DNA—on the Dunhill butt that we found in Carlisle’s driveway.”

  “It will be good to give them two samples,” Amanda said.

  “I was going to see if she had a tube of that Stila Dusty Rose in the bathroom to match,” Frank said.

  Hearing Frank pronounce the brand and shade of lipstick tickled Amanda. His low voice made “Stila Dusty Rose” sound silly.

  “After you get the lipstick tube, we should probably shove off.” Tommy turned to Kleini and Link. “Can you guys bring our evidence back to the Hall? We’re on our way to an interview.”

  “Sure. Except for the cigarette butt, should we log it in the Evidence Room?” Kleini asked.

  “Actually, no,” Tommy said. “The computer in Amanda’s trunk goes to Navarro, and the other stuff goes in the empty office in my suite of offices. Here’s the key.”

  “Got it,” Kleini said.

  Frank and Tommy gave Kleini and Link their bags of evidence. “Let’s get the computer out of Amanda’s car.”

  They left the apartment complex and Frank drove them back to San Francisco in record time since the traffic was low at mid-day. Tommy supplied Frank with the address for Vincent Voss’s law office.

  Once there, Frank said, “I’ll drop you at the door and find a spot for the car.”

  Chapter 15

  San Francisco

  Tommy and Amanda arrived in the posh reception area of the Voss & Baker Law Offices, the name displayed in gold letters on a mahogany wall behind the receptionist desk. They supplied their names and ID badges to the sophisticated-looking receptionist, her hair pulled back as tightly as a ballet dancer’s. She didn’t quirk an eyebrow, so desensitized was she to the comings and goings of figures of importance and authority.

  “We’re here to see Vincent Voss,” Tommy said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked while looking at her flat screen, giving the impression that she was consulting Voss’s calendar.

  “No. The world of solving crimes doesn’t run on pre-scheduled appointments,” Tommy said with a sigh.

  His remark drew a quick glance from her, but nothing else. She returned to her screen and typed something to someone. “I can’t guarantee anything if you don’t have an appointment. Please have a seat in our waiting area.” She pointed to a sofa and coffee table across the room, no doubt hinting that she didn’t want Tommy hovering over her.

  Amanda used the brush-off as an opportunity to use the restroom. When she returned, Tommy was pacing like a caged tiger. The receptionist glanced at him every few minutes, as if expecting him to roar and pounce.

  Amanda sat on the sofa and caught up on her emails. After 15 minutes of an uncomfortable atmosphere, a slick-looking man in a pinstripe suit emerged from the back office and entered the reception area.

  “I’m Vincent Voss. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  Tommy and Amanda removed their bifolds and showed him their IDs. “I’m Detective Tommy Vietti, and this is District Attorney Amanda Hawthorne. We’re investigating a homicide and need to speak with you. Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

  Voss turned a whiter shade of privileged white class. “Uh. Yeah. The conference room.” He opened the thick, mahogany door and waved them through, then told Tommy to take the first right.

  “Please, sit,” he motioned to the empty chairs at the table. After they sat, Voss perched gingerly on the edge of his chair, prepared to bolt any second.

  “Thank you,” Tommy said. “Without further ado, I need to confirm the alibi of a suspect with you. Where were you last night?”

  “I’m not a suspect, am I?” Voss asked.

  “Not yet. If you cooperate and your story pans out, I don’t foresee you becoming one,” Tommy said.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You are a lawyer, aren’t you?” Tommy asked.

  “Not a criminal lawyer,” Voss said.

  “I don’t think you need a lawyer, but you’re welcome to have one,” Amanda said.

  Voss considered her for a minute. “Congratulations on your re-election, by the way. I voted for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not encouraging small talk.

  Vincent refocused on Tommy. “What was your question again?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Um. Well. I’d prefer not to tell you. It will go in a police report, and I was with a client who demands the highest degree of confidentiality.”

  He has some familiarity with criminal law, Amanda thought.

  “I didn’t ask who you were with, Mr. Voss. I asked where you were,” Tommy said.

  “I appreciate that, but I can see where this is going, so, unless you can explain why I’m involved in something, I have to assert the attorney-client privilege.”

  “Are you really asserting attorney-client privilege with a lover?” Amanda asked. “Wouldn’t you be outsmarting yourself? Isn’t there a Rule of Professional Responsibility forbidding us from having sex with our clients?”

  “Well. Um. It’s a corporate client, and I don’t work directly with her. I work with her staff.”

  “How’d you meet her then?” Amanda asked.

  “At her office—by chance. We weren’t working on a project together.”

  “Name?” Tommy asked.

  “I honestly can’t tell you,” Voss said, a bit too dramatically for Amanda’s taste.

  “You honestly can,” Tommy said. “Just because it might be embarrassing for both of you doesn’t mean you can’t tell us her name. She’s a suspect in the homicide of someone last night, and you’re currently hovering on the bubble of becoming one yourself. Would you like me to arrest you and move this conversation down to the Hall of Justice?”

  Voss flinched, his eyes darting from Tommy to Amanda

  Tommy stared at Voss in silence. Neither man backed down. Amanda considered the exchange amusing, since she knew it was only a matter of seconds before Voss cracked.

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t see how this involves me,” Voss said.

  “You’re right, Mr. Voss. My mistake. Why don’t we do it this way? You’re under suspicion for the murder of Jared Carlisle. Or, at the very least, for being an accomplice to the murder of Jared Carlisle. Would you like me to Mirandize you, arrest you, and bring you to the Hall of Justice for an interrogation in a room with one-way mirrors and recording devices, or would you like to cooperate here, in the comfort of your conference room?”

  Voss sank back in his chair and tried unsuccessfully to control his quivering facial nerves, his clever black eyes ping-ponging between Tommy and Amanda. “Who’s Jared Carlisle?”

  “Kara Montiago’s other lover,” Tommy decided to leave out “former.”

  Amanda saw instantaneous panic in Voss’s eyes, and, as per usual, she was impressed with Tommy’s tactical efficiency in peeling away the cloak of privilege.

  “Kara? Another lover? Dead? I didn’t have anything to do with killing anyone. What do you want to know?” Voss moved forward and rested his elbows on the table.

  “Where were you last night?” Tommy asked.

  “The Scarlet Huntington Hotel,” Voss said.

  “On California Street?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you eat dinner there? Use a credit card?”

  “No.”

  “Have a drink in the bar?” Tommy asked.

  “No,” Voss said.

  “Use a credit card to rent a room?” Tommy asked.

  “No. Cash.”

  “Did the hotel give you a printout?” Tommy asked.

  “If they did, I left it in the room.”

  “When were you there? Try to be as close to the actual times as possible,” Tommy said.

  “I’m not exactly sure. We met in the reception area. I made the reservation and dealt with the front desk to avoid someone recognizing Kara. We got there
around 8:30. Maybe 8:45. We left around midnight.”

  Tommy looked at Amanda. “We’ll check the hotel security cams.”

  “Good idea,” Voss said.

  “What room were you in?” Tommy asked.

  Voss thought. And thought. “I honestly can’t remember.”

  “What floor?” Tommy asked.

  “I don’t know that either. I was too preoccupied with Kara and making sure we protected her identity.”

  “Maybe Kara will remember,” Tommy said to Amanda. He turned back to Voss. “Your story is consistent with Kara’s.”

  “You’ve spoken to her already?” Voss asked.

  “Of course. She told us she was with you,” Tommy said.

  “Why didn’t you just say that up front?” Voss asked.

  “Because I don’t put words in my suspects’ mouths, Mr. Voss. How long have you been sleeping with Mrs. Montiago?”

  “I don’t know. A few months, maybe longer.”

  “What kind of sex?” Tommy asked.

  Voss blinked a few times. “Good. Wait. What are you asking? What did she tell you?”

  “Here’s the way this works, Mr. Voss. I ask you questions and you answer them. I’m not going to tell you what Kara Montiago said in response to each question before you answer it. Okay?”

  Voss removed his glasses and gave his eyes a vigorous rub. Without the thick lenses, Amanda thought he looked like he hadn’t slept last night. He replaced his glasses and spoke. “Okay. Fine. The sex was normal. Nothing kinky. She likes to be in control, but I’m sort of used to that.” He glanced at Amanda then returned his attention to Tommy.

  “Any toys?” Tommy asked.

  “No.”

  “Whips? Feathers? Satin ties?” Tommy asked.

  Voss frowned. “No. None of that.”

  “Did you smoke weed before you had sex?”

  Voss pursed his lips.

  “I’m not going to publicize that you smoke marijuana, Mr. Voss. This is a homicide investigation, not a character assassination.”

  “Right. Okay. Maybe a few times.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t know. She brought it.”

  “Did you ever see her smoke a cigarette?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What brand?”